Pulsating Party Pussy.

'Meow- Meow' is a stupid name for a Drug.
There, I said it, because someone had to wear the big girl pants and say it.
For about 6 months I have read in the press about the new party drug that is killing it's fair share of weekend warrior drug users in the UK and around the world.
It's a cocktail of chemicals derived from plant fertilizers, and as such, authorities in the UK have had a tough time getting it banned.
In Australia, it is illegal.
The chemical combination in question creates a white powder called Mephedrone, which sells at a quarter of the price of Ecstasy, and apparently has some of the buzz of Cocaine, but only for a short time.
It is being manufactured in China- everything is made in China anyway, so why not- and it is yet another way to get wasted for less than the price of a couple of drinks at a bar.
I have never seen it, I have no interest in seeing it.
The death rate attached to this particular drug seems disproportionately high, but that will not stop a lot of Teflon coated clubbers from seeking it out.
When I was young I watched a neighbor inhaling the smoke from a Joss Stick as he moaned to anyone listening " Oh my God man, this is WICKED, I am SOOOOOO stoned".
He wasn't.
I've tried it.
My issue here today is not, in fact, about the illicit and seedy drug trade.
My issue is merely with the name.
Because WHO is Christs heaven came up with a street name that sounds like the copy on the packaging of a four pack of Hello Kitty Underwear?
Where is the branding dipshit who insisted that when this stuff went to market, the easiest way to identify it's purity was to give it the cartoony name of a Japanese Porn Star?
It sounds like a made up name for a vagina.
What self respecting gay party animal is going to be sitting outside a rave club screaming "I NEED TO BUY SOME MEOW MEOW NOW !!!GIVE ME PUSSY !!!!I WANT PUSSY!!!!" down the telephone.
And for that matter, and I think this may be my point, what self respecting dealer is going to turn to his trusted regular customers and announce " You know, I've got some meow-meow if you're interested?"
For fucks sake.
Most drug dealers, although loving family men and women all I'm sure, are not the type of people into cutesy double barreled fru-fru names for their street trade.
Most drug dealers are hard sons-of-bitches who will happily stand beside you at an ATM whilst you, loaded out of your head, drain your bank account of all available funds, then beat the crap out of you if you look at them sideways.
They don't mean to be evil c**ts, it's just that they are drug dealers.
But back to the Worlds Worst Brand Name.
Was there no thought put into this AT ALL?
Heroin has 'smack', Cocaine has 'Charlie', MDMA has 'Ecstasy', Dope has .....'dope', or 'green'.....Hash has 'brown'...( OK, a few of these are equally lame, but try to remember WHO is doing the naming)....other things have other names like 'Speed' and 'Acid' and and 'Bennys' and 'Schrooms' and Mephedrone got 'Meow-Meow'.
How embarrassment.
It's like one of those attempted posh names that trailer trash Americans call their kids.
" Hey Chantellamain, go out and tell Ezeckiphillabob to get his ass in here and skin that Opossum for supper like he said he would"........." Oh, and tell him to ask Antoinettalee-Sue if she's got any of that Meow-Meow on her, Papa's comin' out of the big house tomorrow and weeze goin' to have ourselves a big ol' party".
If the man has been behind bars for longer than a year, then he has probably never heard of this product, and if he has, there is no way he is going to announce to his cell mates " First thing I'ma gonna do when I break outa this joint is head on over to Doraleens place and get me some Meow Meow".
Because if he did say that, the guys in the joint would naturally assume that he was heading over to Doraleens place for some pussy.
Which is fine.
That being said, given that 9 out of 10 times a man filled with chemicals is as useful to a woman as a plate full of steaks at a Vegan picnic, the chances of him getting pussy whilst full of Meow-Meow are.......well.....not very great.......
But it's too late now.
The cat is out of the bag- so to speak.
Lewis Carroll would be turning in his grave.
But unlike his cat, this Feline is not about to disappear, and the world dumbest drug name ( for now) is here to stay.

"I'm looking at you, you're looking at him, he's looking at me.......

......somethings missing 'cause I don't understand where I fit in"
I am a creature of habit.
In fact, I am such a creature of habit that I have used that moniker as a Nom De Plume many times on various websites.
That's how habitual I am.
There are certain brands of things I always buy, certain sandwiches at Subway that I always order, certain ways I like to prepare for bed, certain websites I always read, and there's a certain way I like my clothes ironed and put away ( obviously if I had to do all the houseworky things I might need to become a little LESS certain, but that's one of the perks of living in Honkers, and I am certainly not about to rock that particular status quo).
I even have a certain syntax.
But before you rule me out as yet another middle aged, middle class boring titted nut bag I would just like to point out that none of this 'certainty' and 'habitual behaviour' in any way implies that I am unadventurous or stuck in the mud.
Trust me on this one, when the offer of something new and exciting- or just plain bizarre and dangerous- comes along, I am the first girl to be found swinging from a harness with little more than 5 well positioned apricots and a jar of honey for protection.
I have tried it, eaten it, swallowed it, used it, worn it, been there and done it, and will continue to do so until I am placed in a cage for my own protection.
True, for the last 4 clean years I have given up more bad habits than most people have in a lifetime, but it doesn't have to be illegal to be alluring.
I like to try new things, I just have a certain way of enjoying them.
And so I think what we are talking about here actually is Obsessive Behavior- or OB- which for the most part gets shockingly bad press, and yet for the most part, is what makes the money- and hence the world- go around.
Even as I write this, high in my cave above Gotham City, I can hear all my other OB friends tearing out their hair yelling "It's OCD Wendy you twat" but it's not.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is the chronic and heartbreaking mental illness that, according to the all knowing telly, affects millions of people in America alone.
These are the people who can not leave their houses until they have locked and re-locked the doors several times in a minute.They suffer- and I mean they truly suffer- from a condition that catastrophises their lives to such a degree that sometimes suicide seems a reasonable escape. OCD sufferers are compulsed to carry out certain ritualistic behavior in order to prevent perceived calamity and disaster.
This is not what we are naming here, we are talking about the girlfriend that you have who has her vitamins in alphabetical order in the kitchen, or the guy you know who gets his hair cut every 4th Wednesday, no matter what hell hole country he is visiting, because to break the habit would mean his hair may get messy, and he's just not that into mess.
It's normal obsessive behavior.
The kind OB that's friendly enough to take out and show each other at parties " I ONLY drink Martini's, and ONLY if they are made with XXX brand Vodka, and ONLY from a glass this size. I didn't think you would have the right size glass, so I brought one from home"
See, it's nutty, but it's publicly acceptable nutty.
And I think- I know- this is what I have.
My obsessions take on short,medium and long term forms.
There are some things I have been obsessed with for living memory- Prince Edward , now Duke of Wessex, don't ask me why it's not up for discussion, but from the age of about 8 it's always been him. ( Dear God, I can't believe I told you, I am actually weeping tears of shame).
In terms of medium length OB I would say Whales. When I am bored, or not bored, or just feeling compulsed to do it I will sit on you tube and watch whales swim,sing and move about. They fascinate me. They are so way big.
And short term can be something as simple as a new flavour of coffee at Starbucks, which I will discover and spend every waking minute thinking about for up to 3 weeks, then one day
BAM !!!!, the flavour sucks sh*t and I'm over it and onto the next thing.
Being fickle is as much a part of being obsessive as being obsessive is.
For the last couple of years, Facebook has been another one for me, to the point where people have made comments. " Oh you seem to always be posting something" Well, yes, I have an obsessive personality type, when I fall in love it's forever ( unless I get sick of you, then in 3 weeks BAM !!!! you are GONE buddy) but with Facebook I suspect, after this long together we are mated for life. Mind you, I did feel that way about Myspace for a while.....I must go over to his place and get my poetry back.
Obsessives are passionate, we are loyal, we have influence, and those of us who are early adopters are every marketing managers dream consumer.
Ask an OB about the gadget they just bought, then settle in for the afternoon, 'cause you ain't goin' nowhere.
It's not always easy being mildly mental.
We do have a tendency to complicate things for ourselves, and it is hard to explain to those other types of personalities exactly WHY we need to see Avitar 4 times in two weeks ( Are you fucking kidding me? Did you see how pretty it all was? Why would you NOT want to see it that often?).
There is sometimes a fear that we may get caught in a kind of a rut of our own making ( although I truly can listen to Mason William's Classical Gas continuously for a month and never hear it the same way twice).
And sometimes we need another OB type of person to shake it up a bit ( a BIG thank you to the OB matey who showed me where to buy that moisturiser super discounted, I now have enough to last me until the next ice age).
I live in a town of Crazies and Obsessives, and I wouldn't have it any other way. My community satisfies my total obsession with the human foible, observation of which is a powerful addiction.
Next to celebrities, real people are the most extraordinary creatures, and without access to such folly I would be forced to collect teaspoons, or tinker with ancient car parts or spot trains or rare birds.
People are my true obsession, and I have observed that whether they are perpetually pushing the edge of the envelope, taking on Big Brother, or making better men and women of themselves, the OB buds of mine find absolutely no shame in taking on a concept, idea or product and hammering the shit out of it in a methodical and habitual manner.
It's that dedication to certainty that lets the rest of the world relax in their beds knowing that out there somewhere, someone is thinking and thinking and thinking about how to make a better mousetrap.Or a better mouse.Or just thinking about mice, even the little not-very-good ones.
So I obsessively watch the obsessives, who watch each other and write about it. Which I write about.
It's a peculiar habit, but a relatively healthy one, when you consider the number of unhealthy obsessions out there, one of which I did hear of that involved a large married man, a fondue set, de-thorned roses and an unreasonably large quantity of Cod Liver Oil........
But that's for another time perhaps......

And now for my next trick..............

I have discovered the secret of the Magi.
You know when you were a kid and you watched magicians pull endless things out of hats and bags?
Like Mary Poppins, they put their hands into a small pocket of felt or silk and removed rabbits, flowers, doves, jugs with water in them, small children and tigers.
And you thought " That's amazing, he managed to keep the cast and crew of Oliver Twist in there, but surely that's all that can be inside" and -Lo !!In goes the hand again and out comes a Boeing 747.
Well, I have an announcement.
This is not some tawdry trick learned in the dark halls of some secret society, or an illusion based around smoke and mirrors.
The answer to the question " How can one possible keep the detritus and accoutrement of an entire existence inside one small 6 inch by 6 inch satchel?" is answered by the statement "Just make sure the satchel in question belongs to a woman"
My handbag is a magic portal with hidden rooms that hold my entire life.
It's like a bottomless cup of coffee but instead of life saving caffeine, when you sup from the cup that is my handbag you will find an endless array of the bits and pieces that would give the average anthropologist enough material for a 10 part Doco on the BBC and a psychologist enough material for a thesis and a court order.
Lipsticks seem to be a feature.
A lot of women carry a lipstick in their bags. I carry the range. Not 'A' range, as in 'a range of lipsticks', I mean 'THE' range, as in 'the current range available in most shops of all brands'.
Anyone who has met me has probably worked out that I can be a bit girly when it comes to my appearance.
I don't really fuss about my body as much as I probably should, but I am a bit 'thing' about my face.
It was not always thus.
For dozens of years- possibly hundreds- I simply didn't give a shit.
In my teens/twenties and most of my thirties the thought of taking time out of my day to apply make-up when it all just dribbles off anyway seemed pointless and vain.
I would look around at the painted harpies that filled my view and think " who are you kidding?"
Make up counters in Department Stores reminded me of scythe-like farming equipment designed to rip the ripe heads off the fattest wheat sheaf's as they wandered past in oblivious decrepitude.
Paying money to put sheep fetus on your face or taking 'colour compatibility' advice from a screaming fairy with flapping hands or a woman painted up like a clown seemed as sensible as climbing very tall mountains covered in ice.
I simply did not see the point.
But then a funny thing happened on the way to the circus, as they say.
One day, I bought an eyeliner.
A brown one.
And, because I was there, I also bought a lipstick.
The thin edge had been wedged right in.
Since that fateful day I have purchased enough Glyceryl Stearate, PVP, Stearic Acid, Propylene Glycol, Triethanolamine, Emulsifying Wax, NF, Methylparaben, Propylparaben, Butylparaben, Imidazolidnyl Urea, Simethicone,Mica Cl 77491, Cl 77492, CL 77499 (Iron Oxides), CL 77891 (Titanium Dioxide) and other C numbers all parading as beauty products to sink a small, but powerful, battleship.
I have applied so much paraffin wax and colours to my lips that for a while, I used to blame my lipsticks for my weight gain.
Truly, I have worked out that I chow down on at least 15mls of delicious oxides and vegetable fats a month.
I'm not sure what Weight Watches would have to say about the 'points value' of a tubes of 'Juicy Jelly lip gloss'- but at the rate I digest it, it must surely be added to the calorie count of any diet plan?????????
Anyhoo, my lip painting is not what we are discussing today, rather, the ability of my handbag to fill its self overnight with everything that isn't nailed down and then for me to discover these stow away bits and bobs through-out the week.
Because I swear, I am not putting all this stuff in there.
Take, for example, the coins.
The city I live in uses coins for all denominations up to and including $10.
That's 12 different types of coins that can be used to purchase stuff.
Some of them are tiny tiny and weigh next to nothing. They can also purchase very little by themselves. Luckily for them, however, they breed very well in small dark places- like handbags-so that even if you started the week with say- only two- by the time the weekend rolls around you may have as many as 20 or thirty of the buggers just sloshing around the bottom of your bag.
I could spend them I suppose, but in all honesty buying a coffee with fistfuls of minute 10 cent coins looks as lame as it sounds, so once a week I empty all of these small brown breeders into a Piggy Bank ( actually it's a Teddy Bank but that's just semantics) and once a year I send my children down to the bank with plastic bags filled with unwanted, neglected shrapnel.
I work a lot, so little excursions like this one can be an excellent distraction for young people.
Remarkably, all that breeding coinage- when placed in piles- becomes actual money.
My now cashed up kinder then take themselves off for a delicious 5 course meal or a trip to the Philippines ,often purchasing sheets of gold leaf and munching down on it whilst walking the streets of Hong Kong, such is the ability of my handbag to hold and manufacture small denomination currency.
Another thing my handbag has an endless supply of is pens.
'Nice' pens that feel good in the hand, cheap plastic pens that never release their ink no matter how many circles you draw on the paper, and novelty pens with feathers stuck on the ends- which are the only ones I can ever lay my hands on in a business meeting.
I do not know how they get in there- much like all the coins and the lipsticks-but if you need a pen that looks like a flamingo when you are signing a contract that has the words 'whereas', 'amicus curiae' or 'defendant' in the body of the text, I'm your girl.
Unless, of course, if the matter is urgent, in which case all the pens drain down into the sinkhole that also exists in my handbag and you are left digging 'a hole down into China' as my mother used to say, with not a single useful writing object in sight.
This sinkhole only appears in emergencies- like when you need a pen because you have just met the greatest person ever and they want to give your their phone number, or you are 10 cents short of the cash you need to pay the taxi driver and he has locked the doors, or you see that you are about to bump into your ex in the street when you are coming back from the gym, and you REALLY need some lipstick. NOW !!!
Which is why I consider my handbag not just a trick, like some kind of novelty purchased from a shop that also sells escapable handcuffs and whoopie cushions.
My handbag is, quite simply, magic.
Of the real variety.
And it matters not whether I am carrying a dainty crystal clutch thing for the evening, or a serious dead-cow back-pack for the heavy days, or a snazzy nylon zippy thing for the in between times, if it's a bag, and I am holding it, it will hold and dispense or hide and withhold as many or as little of the things it feels I need at any given moment.
It's that amazing.
And though the thought of my handbag dispensing value judgement is a little unnerving, I am coming to terms with the idea that sometimes I should just go with the flow and learn to trust.
Perhaps the great secret here is that, like all things that are good for us even though sometimes it's hard to recognise it, my handbag knows not only what I need, but when I REALLY need it.
Perhaps not getting that number is better for me in the long run than getting it, perhaps I need to take the bus more often, perhaps bumping into my ex fresh faced is just what the doctor ordered.
When a magician stands on stage and sticks his hand into the bag, perhaps what comes out is just as much a surprise for him as it is for his audience.
Lets face it, a life full of surprises is just so much better than the alternative.
Plus, the advantages of having a ready escape route when the need arises can not be overlooked, and although it would be faster for me to walk my way to China than to dig my way into it, knowing that the portal works as a revolving door is heartening to say the least.
Dressed, as we are, for the world stage, it pays to know where the exits are.
I shall end today's show with a simple card trick, watch my hands, you will note I have nothing up my sleeve, and just a small elephant in my handbag......................
Trust me, I'm a woman, and I've done this before.
Watching carefully?......................................
TA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

I'm OK, You're......OK.....sort of....If I squint.........

Single white female.
Not looking for Single male with sense of humour, love of out doors and long walks on the beach, who enjoys cooking and a movie on the couch, or a great adventure or pumping iron at the gym.
Drink occasionally, never drink or drink until you pass out every night and smoke, or don't smoke, 'cause frankly I don't give a toss, just make sure you don't involve me.
Have as many of your own children as your testes will allow, or hold the buggers back- just do it in your own time, and without my knowledge.
And what ever kind of partner you are looking for, be it your Juliet, Marilyn, Madonna or Mama Cass just take care that on your search for your soul mate, my front door doesn't hit you on the arse on your way out.
I like men. I do. A lot of my friends are men. Or are women who know men.
Men are different to women because a) they have Penises and b) they can reach things on top shelves without standing on chairs.
(OK, to be fair, that's not a real male/female difference, but I am 5 foot 2 and when I think of men, I think of them as being taller than me, which they usually are).
The thing I like about men-most men- is that they think in a male way.
For example, men think about doing things. Give a man a box with a model airplane in it, and he will set about sticking the bits together. He will want to make it 'cause nature and evolution have taught men that when you need something the best way is to start with an action.
When we lived in caves, and Mrs Caveman was bitching 'cause supplies of Wooly Mammoth Meat were getting low, Mr Caveman and his mates went out and got some more.
Most men- there are of course always exceptions- are still like that.
Do, get, kill, catch,work,make,hunt. Doing words. Verbs. Men words are verbs that involve the hands.
And a man who is good with his hands is good value indeed.
So yes, if I wanted to be in a relationship right now, my preference would be to be in a relationship with a boy.
However the problem appears to be, and with all due respect to my ex-husband, and the handful of other men I have been involved with over the years, that most of the men that fall into the catchment area of my desired demographic are well....... 'pants'........as the British would say.
So many fish in the sea. So many of them with small bones and toxic levels of mercury.
Statistics I have partially invented would suggest that out of 100 males within the age range of 39-50 living in HK, 8 percent will prefer the company of other men over me.
So that leaves 92.
Dividing the remaining badly dressed hetero guys into the married and the unmarrieds-half/half-leaves 46 fellas.
The remaining 46 men are single, and technically available.
Lets look at them shall we ?
Why would a man aged between 39-50 be single?
I have developed my own theories about most things, and my theory to answer that question goes like this....
Half of the men remaining- 23- are still single because they are simply un-partnerable ie: they are damaged goods.
Men who have never been in a long term relationship by the time they are 40 are not (and this may shock a few of you) cool.
They are tragic.
Whether it's extreme selfishness, extreme wankerishness or extreme body hair, the reason why a man can not commit to more than a 3 month fling is less important than the fact that these same men are so proud of being without love.
"Look how amazing I am" they say "I don't need anybody".
Wow. Aren't you evolved? How enriching for you. Your 'lone-wolf-ness' must be so rewarding for you. How cool you will be when, aged 74, you sit alone in front of your TV being all " Thank God I have never had to go to the effort of loving someone other than myself".
Yup, you're a hero.
In chocolate factories around the world, the candies that come out flawed get a second coat of chocolate and are often sold off cheaply in the factory shop as 'damaged double dippers'.
Cheap, flawed chocolate factory seconds sell like hot cakes. No one buys damaged double dipping men.
The final 23 men left out of our potential 100.....a mere 23% of men.........are divorced or pre-partnered, like me.
Half of them were dumped by a woman, and I am not stupid enough to repeat the mistakes of the female brains trust.
That leaves 11.5 men, which we shall round down- because men are always adding false half inches to themselves, either in height, length or girth.
11 % of all men are available to a woman with my level of expectation.
Of them, 50 percent hate : their ex-wives/their jobs/their families/their kids/their colleagues/their mates/themselves.
I do not dig haters, so that leaves 5.( Rounded down)
Of those 5, one will be flatulent (pass), two will be shockingly bad in bed ( MAJOR PASS !!!) and one will not be tall enough to reach the top shelf (pass, and I know that's superficial but I have been very reasonable up until this point)...so that leaves......
1.
1% of all men aged 39-50 who live near where I live are datable.
Not marry-able, or even shack-up-with-able, just datable, and I ask you, what sort of stats are those?
I have more chance of being struck by lightening whilst being tongue kissed by a Great White Shark in a 4WD with broken brakes on a level crossing than I do of finding Mr Right within a 100 KM radius of where I live.
I am not despondent though, oh no, do not weep for me.
I am happily single, white and female.
In 10 years time, when the field has thinned a little, and the chances of me finding a man with his shit finally together are greater, I may just dip my toe back into the water.
In the mean time, I shall continue to enjoy the company of my many male friends, and continue to admire the way the get on and do things.
But I shall not look to them to fulfil my need for happiness. I am good enough with my own hands to do that. ;)